


Snowday (almost)

by zeraparker



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Consensual Sex, Introspection, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: Cold winter days have Carl spiral in his dark thoughts, and finding kinks he didn't know he had.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, because it's Christmas (and on Christmas you tell the truth) I promised Gemjam some wintery, possibly snowy, possibly cuddley Carl/Negan fic. Well, it's wintery, but it's not cuddley and Carl is a ball of depression and dark thoughts, but God, he's fun to play with. So if the tags *points up again* don't scare you off, have fun. Merry Xmas and a happy New Year.

The clouds have been hanging thick and low all day. With the temperature drop during the last week, the Sanctuary has been converted into a giant cooling chamber. The concrete, chilly even in summer, barely saves any heat, the open layout of the ground floors making it hard to keep the temperatures at a minimum. Carl is wrapped in layers and layers of clothes, walking stiffly along the corridors. At least moving keeps him warm, a little. He misses the hot showers of Alexandria, the mild winters down in Georgia. In the Sanctuary, all he gets his stifled air because no one dares open any windows in case what little heat they generate escapes.

So Carl becomes restless, pacing up and down hallways, climbing the stairs. The ground floors are crowded with everyone huddling together, hands around cups of tea and thin soup, sniffling from runny noses, hushed whispers of sickness and fear spreading in the puffs of hot breath visible in the air.

He climbs the stairs, up up up, past the floor his own room is on, past Negan's, past the harem in which the wives are decked out in luxurious pelts and mountains of pillows and blankets, up up up until he can push open the tiny door that leads onto the roof of the old factory building. There's no one up here, too far removed from the ground to be any use as snipers and with the visibility blocked by the thick clouds, the guards patrolling set up on the lower roofs of the side buildings.

It's quiet up here. The air is clear, and Carl takes a deep breath of air that doesn't smell like too many damp humans cooped up in close quarters. Afternoon light defused by the clouds blinds Carl as he blinks up, taking a few steps across the roof. He rounds the antennae on top, heads for the walled edge. A small push, some balancing, and he's sitting on the wide brim, his feet dangling over the void. It's the most peaceful place Carl has found in the whole compound.

He sits there for a long time. It's something in the air, some kind of tension, thick enough for Carl to taste it on his tongue. Like the minutes before thunder, but different, softer. Number. Still, he can't pull himself away, go back inside. It's not windy, but the air is still icy, slowly creeping through the layers of fabric shielding his body. His fingers are freezing, stuck between his thighs to keep them as warm as he can. He reaches up, adjusts the bandage over the hole in his head, the cold tugging uncomfortably at the edges.

With the light slowly fading, the ground seems to fall away from beneath his feet, the distinct shapes falling into shadow before being swallowed by the darkness completely. His face is growing numb from the cold, his toes too inside his boots, his body starting to shiver to keep up a minimum of heat. The hat isn't helping much to keep his ears warm either.

By the time Carl forces himself to move, it's pitch black, the moon hiding behind the threatening clouds. His joints are stiff as he climbs down from the wall, his legs smarting with pins and needles. He groans in discomfort, but knows already that he'll be back the next day. Maybe it'll finally snow then.

The metal door bangs loudly back into its lock. Carl descends the stairs slowly, no lights on the walls this far up, just the faint shimmer from below crawling towards him, as muted as the sounds from the ground levels.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Negan's voice stops him halfway up the stairs between the harem level and Negan's rooms. Carl rolls his eye before he turns to face the older man. Negan smirks “Or rather, where are you coming from?” Negan takes a step closer, glancing up the stairs. “You trying to get your rocks off with one of my wives?”

Carl leans back against the wall, rolling his eye again, not caring whether Negan sees it or not. “No.”

“Oh come on, kid. I was fucking joking. Lighten up a little.” Another step, and he's within Carl's personal space, raising one leather clad arm to rest it against the wall above Carl's head. “I was gonna go fetch one of the girls, but... you wanna warm my bed tonight?”

“Quit it.” Carl feels numb, his body still shivering from the cold he'd brought downstairs from the roof with him. He doesn't care for Negan's games tonight, for their push and pull that seems so addicting so often.

“Oh come the fuck on. It's freezing like hell in here, you should-” Negan says, reaching out to brush the hair out of Carl's face, bumping his hat to the side on the way. He stops when his fingers slide over Carl's ice cold skin. With a frown, he cups Carl's cheek, then pushes the tips of his fingers past Carl's collar. “Fuck, you trying to catch death, kid?”

It's a rhetorical question Carl doesn't deem answering. Negan grumbles something under his breath, reaching up to remove the red scarf he's got tugged into the front of his leather jacket, unwinds it from his neck. He loops it around Carl's throat, jostling the hat again as he wraps it around and around Carl's neck, the soft fabric warmed by his own skin making Carl burst out in violent goosebumps. Negan tugs it tight, and Carl swallows, feeling the restricting firmness of the fabric.

“Thanks.”

Negan scoffs. “Come on, kid. Move.” His fingers close around Carl's shoulder and he doesn't put up any fight as he's steered down the stairs, down the hallway on the next level and into Negan's room.

It's not warmer here than in the rest of the compound, but the heavy metal door keeps out the draft once it's closed behind them. The four-poster-bed is piled high with blankets and pillows, thick curtains hanging from the frame, secured around the posts. Negan walks towards it and starts loosening the knots, the heavy fabric falling into place making a smaller enclave within the room.

A pointed look is enough to make Carl lean down to untie his boots. He tosses his jacket across one of the chairs but keeps on all his shirts. His jeans follow, his legs looking too thin in the dark leggings he's wearing underneath. He places his hat on top of the pile of clothes, the scarf still securely around his throat and climbs into the bed. The blankets are chilly, clammy from the cold air. Carl burrows beneath them, piles them high on top of himself, drowning in all the fabrics around him. The last of the curtains swings into place around the bed, isolating Carl from the rest of the room, muffling the sounds of Negan walking around, shuffling out of the outer layers of his clothes. By the time he parts the curtains to join Carl, the boy has almost dozed off into sleep.

Negan's body is hot against Carl, even through all their clothes. He tugs Carl towards himself, and Carl goes willingly, allowing himself to be wrapped up in Negan's arms, Negan's chest pressed against his back, their legs tangled together. His skin feels too tight, his muscles hurt from the sudden heat. He shivers again, but Negan just tightens his hold on him, and eventually Carl drops off into an uneasy sleep.

 

 

They're not entangled any more by the time Carl blinks himself awake. It must be late morning, some light already trying to peak through the curtains around the bed. It's stifling warm now, their combined body heat having warmed up all the blankets and the air caged in by the curtains over night. Negan is curled up on his side, a couple inches space between them, snoring quietly in his sleep.

Carl studies him in the dim light, barely enough to make out his features. He feels numb, his head stuffed with cotton. Moving his limbs is difficult with the pile of blankets on top of him, weighing him down. He twists slowly, trying to stretch his limbs, but the scarf tugs around his throat, making it hard to breathe. Reaching up, he touches the soft fabric with his fingers, follows it with his eyes. One end unwound during the night, now stuck between Negan's shoulder and the mattress.

For a long time he just lies like this, breathing evenly against the warm coil of the scarf around his neck that makes it hard to swallow, hard to fill his lungs completely. He feels deflated, removed from reality that seems on hold outside the cocoon of the curtains, Negan's room. With another gentle tug of his head, the scarf tightens another bit, and Carl can hear the blood rush in his ears, the heavy beat of his heart.

It turns into something like a wicked game. Carl forces himself to breathe as deep and evenly as he can, and just when it feels like normal, he'll twist away another bit, and the scarf tightens around his throat, warm and soft despite how firm its hold is around him. His throat is clicking as he swallows against it, pressure building in his head with every beat of his heart. His skin feels too tight. There's the urge to fight against it, to reach up and tug the scarf loose, take a deep breath, but it seems like the flight reflex in the face of a herd of walkers, and Carl has fought that a million times over, so squashing it is barely a challenge.

His lips are open, allowing the shallow breaths to pass noiselessly through his mouth. Bright spots swim in his vision and Carl twists his head again, another inch. Rubbing the pads of his fingers and thumb against each other sets off a strange tingling sensation and his mind focuses on that as he closes his eye, curls his toes.

“Why are you so far away?” Negan's sleepy voice wafts through the haze, the mattress jostling as he moves. Carl's shallow breath turns into a soft moan when Negan presses his mouth against Carl's tingling lips, pushing him onto his back to crawl on top of him. “What-? Fuck.” Negan's fingers touch his face, falling down to his throat and the scarf quickly, fumbling, momentarily tightening the fabric before he's prying it away.

“No,” Carl gasps weakly even as his traitorous body sucks in lungs full of air. His head is spinning, suddenly dizzy, his whole body tingling as blood rushes through him. He moans, hips moving up against Negan straddling him. He didn't even notice how hard he is until his body writhes against Negan's, finding friction.

“Fucking hell, kid.”

Spots are still swimming in his vision when Carl blinks his eye open. Negan is leaning above him, hands braced on either side of Carl's face. There's a strange look in his eyes, something almost like fear, surprise and something entirely black that takes over the moment Carl bucks up beneath him, rubbing himself against Negan's crotch. “Please.” He doesn't know what he's asking for, but his body feels alive from a rush he's last felt standing drenched in blood and gore among a heap of walkers.

“You're messed up as shit,” Negan says, awe tingeing his voice before he leans down, taking Carl's mouth in a bruising kiss, his stubble rasping over Carl's hypersensitive skin. Carl moans around Negan's tongue, giving himself over without question, moans again when Negan shifts his weight onto one arm, his other hand, long, strong calloused fingers reaching around Carl's throat. “You like that?”

Carl swallows, his adams apple working against Negan's hot palm, not as tight as the scarf before but there, a promise. He nods. Negan dives down for another kiss, his fingers twitching around Carl's throat, making him light headed. Negan groans, lowering himself further onto Carl, rubbing his hard dick against the boy.

“You're gonna be the fucking end of me,” he admits between possessive kisses that leave Carl almost as breathless as the scarf earlier. “I know you love choking on my dick, but this is another level of fucked.” He groans, letting go of Carl's throat to reach down, palm his own cock. “Turn over.”

It takes almost more coordination than Carl feels physically capable off to turn onto his stomach. His face is pressed into the pillows, Negan's weight lifting off him far enough for him to peel Carl's pants over the swell of his arse.

Wound up as he is, it doesn't take much preparation for Carl to take two of Negan's fingers, quickly slicked up. He is writhing, Negan's body stretched on top of him bearing him down into the mattress, one hand still wrapped around his throat possessively if not as tightly as Carl would want to. He pushes into it, burying his face in the pillow that mutes his moan, his hips pushing back onto Negan's fingers roughly, urging him to go on.

Negan complies. With a last curl he pulls his fingers out of Carl, fumbling down his sweatpants with one hand to mid thigh, before he gives himself one, two strokes as relief and then lines himself up with Carl's arse, sinking into him with a groan.

“Please,” Carl gasps out, his head turned to the side to make himself understood, and Negan clenches his hand around his throat again. Carl shudders, his whole body pushing into Negan's palms, the one restricting his breathing, the other firmly planted around his hip as he starts fucking Carl with strong, sure thrusts.

“Take a deep breath, baby,” Negan murmurs when his fingers loosen around Carl's throat, and he complies, his body yearning for the oxygen before Negan's hand clamps around him like a vice.

Carl's body turns liquid beneath him, nothing more than a doll to Negan's fucking. His muscles unlock, that strange tingling returning to his limbs. There's no more breath passing over his lips, not even the shallow ones he'd been able to take with the scarf around his neck, Negan's fingers not allowing it. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, in his throat, pressure building up in his head alongside the heat that's pooling in his guts. Spots are swimming in his vision even after he's closed his eye.

“Look at you giving it up for me,” Negan says, breathing hard himself. He's thrusting into Carl roughly, every push jostling Carl's whole body and pushing him against the palm over and over again, no way to escape it. “I could fucking kill you like this and you'd thank me for it.”

Carl wants to moan but there's no sound coming over his tingling lips, mouth hanging open, taste of the pillow on his tongue. He feels too hot, and still Negan is burning above him, around him, inside him. He wants to be consumed. Negan is breathing a litany of filth into his ear, but Carl can't hear it any more as his lungs burn, as hot as the heat that's making his cock throb against the mattress. Everything is narrowing down, coiling tight, his body clenching, before-

The sudden pressure of oxygen streaming into his lungs feels like a punch to the gut. Carl gasps as Negan lets him go, his body convulsing as it reacts on instinct – survival – and the next gasp is a wet sob as his mind unravels, his body throbbing with almost painful release as he comes, spasming around Negan's cock inside him.

Time slows down. Carl later won't be sure whether he blacked out; everything is dark, but he's filled with sensation, his body one tingling mess, aware of Negan using him to get off, his large hands around his hips moving him how he needs him, a puppet in his hands, until he finishes with a loud moan, his dick buried deep inside Carl's willing body.

When he finally comes back around, resurfacing, he's lying on his side. His throat is raw, his cheeks feeling damp, but his breathing has evened out, his heartbeat strong and steady. He takes stock of his limbs, the boundaries of his body, and for the first time in days it feels like his skin is the right size. 

Negan's hand is a heavy source of warmth on his hip. Carl blinks his eye open, wants to rub at it to clear his vision, but his hands feel too heavy. A moment later Negan brushes the strands of hair out of his face. “You back with me?” Carl makes a vague noise. “Good. Next time, you come fucking ask.”

Carl sighs. He wouldn't even know what to ask for, but he nods his head anyway.

Negan seems satisfied enough. His fingers move down Carl's cheek, brush over the skin of his throat, about the bruises that must be forming there if the tender feel of his skin under Negan's fingers is anything to go by.


End file.
